She’s a beautiful, fresh-faced journalist that covers the cop beat in the Bronx, frets over the fate of displaced Sub-Saharan African tribes, forgets to eat on Saturdays (too busy getting her sea legs in the city to grab a turkey on rye). Her accent is from nowhere though her sensibility is distinctly mid-Western. The girl is strong, intrepid and possesses a deep reserve of calm. I imagine that cool to be like the Grotta Azurra in Capri—deep blue, bottomless. My tranquility and patience, meanwhile, run about as deep as a crawfish ditch in back bayou Louisiana.
I like the girl. I decide over the first glass of bad white wine that I want a daughter just like her. Of course, this means that a piece of me wants to be her but I’ve already given up on that end (I never forget to eat on Saturdays). Her apartment is in Times Square. This appeals to my James Herlihy (“Midnight Cowboy”) notions of Manhattan and blind faith—anything can happen once you’re inside the City walls. Just, for God’s sake—make the journey, breach the gates, get inside! Times Square means you live in the hum, there’s no escape, you don’t give a damn about the cache’ of TriBeCa or Clinton Street. You simply care about being part of IT—the City.
What will happen first for this raven-haired ingénue? Please, Lord, let it be a Pulitzer and not a hedge fund manager. She doesn’t eat; she falls asleep to the white lights of Broadway–give her a break, a slice of the golden pie. Dessert first, and on Saturday–wouldn’t that be nice?
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